Dip Dying
by Literaryluminations
Summary: We bleach the ends of our hair invisible the first Saturday after summer begins. You say it's so the colors will come out truer and brighter. Brittana, microfiction.


**Thank you to Sheila of Trainwreck91 for betareading this on such short notice. **

**For my favorite aunt and uncle, little cousin and baby cousin. Hope your bris goes well, Baby Cous. We love you lots already. Sorry that my first gift to you is fanfiction. **

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We bleach the ends of our hair invisible the first Saturday after summer begins. You say it's so the colors will come out truer and brighter.

I wash your hair under the gold faucet in your mom's clamshell bathtub, letting my hands dig into warm, wet satin. My fingers dance with the strands as I rinse them clean.

I brush your hair until it's a smooth waterfall down your shoulders. I scrape my fingernail from between your eyes up your forehead; I stop at the base of your neck, where the velvet arch is, and then I pull the bunches separate.

You twist your right side to me, so I braid that first. I'm careful, and slow—I split the bunch into three even sections, and work with gentle spider hands so your hair doesn't stiffen. _How far do you want it? _I ask.

You breathe. _Eight inches_.

I smile and wrap the tie-once, twice, three times. I comb out the loose tail with my fingers. Then I braid the left, careful to match the curve of its twin.

You look different with braids—softer, younger, your lips and cheeks plump and full and sweet like honey. It's not your sharp pony or rolling chinadoll curls. Your eyes are darker and glittery; they're glossy and trusting as I mix developer and bleach in a bowl.

I ink the gel into the loose tails of your braids, making sure it soaks through the middle. Then I take a square of silver foil and package it: left to center, right overlapping, and up the bottom by thirds.

We wait for your cellphone timer to chime, your hips in the dip between mine, our whispers echoing across the tile.

You wash my hair like I washed yours, tender and soft. Your palm makes a shelf against my forehead so the soap doesn't get into my eyes.

Wet, my hair braids like seaweed, but your face never hardens when it slips limp out of your fingertips. You spread developer onto the tails with quick brushstrokes; you fold it in foil like you fold laundry, fast and polished.

We unwrap our hair in the pattern we bound it, exposing our white-blonde ends with little gasps and coos. Mine gets lighter from sunshine and lemon juice, but yours turns from black that shines peacock blue to the soft white of pale roses when you expose their underbellies.

I steep fuchsia into your white. The dye is cold against the plastic of my gloves. I lacquer the color until it's coated, then I wrap it like a gift and let it fall against your bare shoulders.

You bloom blue into my hair, using a wide, flat brush that dabs the color on quick and careful, until each raw strand is saturated navy.

We wait and peek and wait for the colors to deepen. Mine's done first; you shock out the excess with a blast of tap water. I return the favor, wringing out your braids until the water runs clear and the only pink has blended lavender in the drain of your tub.

Our hair will crisp if we go outside, so we stay in your bed that weekend, curled in your sheets, painting stars with our kisses. We braid our hair together, one long, thick twist that glows purple in the lamplight. You lie so close that everything is sunrise pink and drenched in honey.

It's the summer of the flower crowns-we gather wildflowers and crochet them into our hair, and spend hours on a sheet worn soft and bare, soaking up sunlight and laughter until we're drugged. Sometimes you sit in the crook of my hips and I practice french twists. My pinkies lead and my other fingers follow, lacing the strands together as they turn from blue-black to magenta.

We strip out the dye before college. You tint your ends dark again, except for the secret curl, right in the middle and behind your left ear, where you leave a strand of fuchsia that reminds me of sunlit pink and the smell of wildflowers on your skin whenever I dig my fingers in deep to find it.


End file.
